On the Other Side
by DragonSapphire
Summary: Stan has a crush. Spooning-verse. Stan/Craig


Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or its characters, and make no profit from writing this story. South Park & Characters are property of Matt Stone & Trey Parker.

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**On the Other Side**

By DragonSapphire

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A/N: This story takes place during the "Spoon" and "Feet and Vegetables" chapters of my fic, Spooning Leads to Forking. Stan's pov.

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Stan had mostly gotten past the point where he felt awkward about jacking off to mental images of people he knew. …_Guys_ he knew, because just thinking about what color a girl's bra was, if she wore one at all, gave him mild to severe heartburn.

He'd heard people were born gay, that DNA and hormones could twist a person around until they didn't know who they were anymore, but this was getting ridiculous. He'd recovered the guilt trip over having gay fantasies, but he'd never had such strong, reoccurring ones as he did about Craig Tucker. Stan would wrap a lotion-slick hand around his cock like he was fucking up into Craig's dirty mouth, imagining flushing those pale cheeks red with the effort not to choke on Stan's dick.

Craig fascinated him the way he had no filters, no boundaries, and just didn't _care_ if someone called him a fag, which no one ever did because Craig was a crazy fucker, and kind of volatile. But if they did, it was a toss up whether Craig would punch them in the face or raucously come on to them. He didn't know if Craig even dated. Stan was used to seeing him alone, or so often surrounded by the same people he'd always been with that they'd become like wallpaper, and he might as well still be alone.

Craig was tall...taller than Stan anyway, but held himself in a way that made him seem small, at least until he unwound and exploded. He was skinny as fuck, and he slouched, although not because he was self-conscious, but rather too lazy and belligerent to make the effort to straighten himself. Quiet and overlooked most times, not exactly unpopular, but then again Craig was categorically antisocial.

Craig was so intense and sure of himself, but laidback in a way that made Stan feel awkward and high strung. He had an amazing neck, too. Stan liked to mentally trace the long, pale curve of it through his lashes, envisioning a crescent of dotted lines right in that perfect spot for his mouth that would be subtitled 'bite here.'

Stan found himself staring at Craig a lot more often, studying him covertly. He was taken by the way Craig's dark blue eyes looked tilted at the corners when he glared, or how they went perfectly wide-eyed and round when he was startled. Or widened when he was overtaken by someone's stupidity, like he couldn't believe a human being could revert several thousand years on the evolutionary scale right before his eyes. That look was usually reserved for Stan and his friends. It ached something fierce inside when Craig's look lingered on him for the shortest amount of time during their few encounters, which Stan hopefully meant that he was the least idiotic, and not that Craig just wasn't interested.

Stan couldn't even describe the way he felt when he'd finally snagged a fraction of Craig's attention during one lunch hour, reeling him in with a mash of verbal diarrhea and entangled plastic silverware. When Craig initiated physical touch beneath the table in the form of rubbing his foot against Stan's leg days later, Stan was so stunned and floundering that he didn't know how to respond. Instead of trying to appear charming and attractive, he fell back on honest irritation that Craig was stealing his food while he distracted Stan with his unexpected footplay. He stabbed at him with his fork and smacked him away in a panic when Craig got dangerously handsy...or footsie, which alternately delighted and scared the shit out of Stan.

He internalized his relief that the more he resisted, the more aggressive and focused on him Craig became. Stan's fantasies had gotten wildly out of control every night, until one accidental slip of the barest skin contact with Craig nearly ended him, fleeing the lunch room and leaving Craig with that wide-eyed look that targeted Stan as the lamest person to ever exist.

When Craig pulled away, quiet and withdrawn, Stan could feel every shred of panic and self-doubt well up inside him, marred with the hope that Craig was just as flustered and – hopefully - as helplessly infatuated as Stan was.

Three days was Stan's breaking point, boldly inquiring a touch that had taken him as long to work up the balls to initiate, unsettled by Craig's visible doubt. Stan toed off his shoe before he even considered what he was about to do, which involved potentially losing his foot, or his life, if Craig snapped. But Stan had to know if Craig wanted...if they even could...

Stan's foot slipped steadily up the other's pant leg, touching bone and flesh that was as gangly as he suspected through dense cloth, contrasting Craig's shuttering, stilted breaths with his own being too deep, too steady, silently urging Craig to remember how to breathe. Stan kept himself focused to the beat of the CPR chest compressions he'd learned in shop class, forgetting the count when he saw the barest inclination of Craig's head, unable to see his expression, but his foot was already moving.

Stan shifted past Craig's knees, touching his thighs and deeper between his legs. There was an unbelievable distance from ankle to inner thigh that had Stan fighting not to reach down and palm the front of his jeans, imaging those long legs wrapped tight around his waist or carelessly hitched over his shoulders. His foot finally pressed into Craig's body like he was coming home to one he wasn't certain he had.

Craig's solid erection curving against his seam and Stan's instep was more vitally alive than any pulsing heartbeat. Stan snugged his foot in tight between Craig's open legs, flexing his toes experimentally. He felt his own dick twitch and dampen the inside of his underwear when Craig reached towards his lap and snatched Stan's ankle, absolutely losing it when Craig rocked his hips and thrust forward into his foot.

Like a shockwave, Stan was blown away.

And then he was up...up and running away, nearly blind to anything other than the pulsing light behind his eyes and the urgent need for release.

Stan didn't even check if he was in the right restroom as he barricaded himself into the stall furthest from the door, pounding his arm against the vulgar metal sheet acting as a wall between toilets, pressing his forehead against his forearm as he struggled one-handed with his pants. He reached for his cock and jerked it fitfully, the half undone zipper chafing the back of his hand until the skin was raw.

The restroom door opening didn't register against the blinding need and flurry of emotions. In the mix there was self-loathing for being so overwhelmed with this one outwardly, initially unremarkable guy that tore his world apart and exposed him, and Craig didn't even _know_...

Stan balked with a hand stuck down his pants when there was a muted kick against his shoe, recognizing the scuffed toe and irregular slashes of blue ink where Craig picked tiny gravel out of the treads of his shoe with his pen during class. Stan reached over the top of the stall without thinking, would have tried _through_ the wall, but unfortunately none of the baser male students had gotten around to installing a crude glory hole like the one they had proudly drilled in the locker room.

Stan never knew if the hole was used for its intended purpose, other than junior varsity initiations where the new guys had to stick their dick through the hole, and the team went at him with colored sharpies. Stan's dick had had eyeballs and angel wings after his own initiation, unable to jerk off for days with the taunting reminder that God was watching every time he masturbated. And probably killed a kitten on his behalf, especially if he knew what kind of masturbation material Stan used.

Craig's fingers sliding between his own felt intimate and obscene, Stan clutching and holding on just to never let go of that feeling. Stan unconsciously stopped breathing for as long as he could, and pressed hard against the wall just to hear Craig, trying feel more of him somehow as he loudly and shamelessly panted on the other side. Craig's curse sounded accusing when he finally came.

Stan's hand was wet and slick with his own seed as his knees bowed and threatened to give. He felt a vague tingling throb in his left knee where he knocked it against the wall that was echoed in sharp pinpoints from where Craig had been digging his nails into the back of his other hand. Stan squeezed his hand softly, what he thought was assuring, as he gently disentangled his grasp from Craig's and mechanically cleaned himself up. But their heads were bent guiltily as they each exited the stalls minutes later, the back of their necks red with heat and uncertain shame.

Stan washed his hands carefully, feeling full and empty at the same time. He tried to catch Craig's gaze in the mirrors' reflection, but avoided his own, afraid to see the physical alterations that surely had to morph along with such internal destruction and rebirth. Craig made him crazy. Stan was in half a mind to walk away, sick to his stomach at the thought he couldn't have more than this moment with him, but Craig's soft unsteady call was enough to undo him. That tone was everything he'd so far learned Craig was not, the implications so much more.

Sharp hope turned cold in his chest when Craig flinched away from the gentle brush of Stan's fingertips against his flushed cheek, marred with a tiny streak of what looked like black ink. Stan was stunned and uncertain by Craig's resistance, and he knew that if he left things like as they were he might as well just go home and kill himself, sparing himself the agony and humiliation.

Desperation welled inside of him when Craig's expression shifted and mirrored exactly what he was feeling. And then Stan was on him in a maneuver that was brilliant when he was taking out other players on an open field and instinct took over, but not so great when he had a cursing Craig pinned to the sink ledge and all he could think about was his mouth being an intimate extension of Craig's own.

A steadying slap to the chest and Craig's patent scowl, marred with delirious wonder as the word "kiss" left Craig's mouth, was almost better than the action itself. It was scary as shit and a relief that Craig was externalizing Stan's most suppressed thoughts shamelessly, because two avoidances didn't make a right.

"Yeah," Stan heard himself agreeing, his hips rocking forward against Craig's with hard intent. Seeing Craig stripped bare and as tentatively hopeful as Stan was finally gave him the confidence to give into something really amazing.

_~fin_


End file.
